The Beast of Dandyton
by Dandyton Lady
Summary: A serial killer is loose in the Steampunk city of Dandyton. Detective Jack Ainsley must find the identity of this madman before it is too late. (Based upon the world created by the people behind Steam Powered Giraffe.)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The clock on the wall glared down at her, the small hand on the five, the longer one barely brushing the near side of the large seven, giving it the look of a disapproving frown. It was almost a half hour until closing, but with the constant thrum of pelting rain outside of the window, she had no doubt the next twenty-seven minutes would pass as the last four hours had, with no customers and nothing to divert her from the plague of her own meandering mind. If Mr. Noble would have been a little less restrictive, she might have brought a book to ease the slow times, but no, that was number seventeen of his myriad and seemingly endless list of restrictions.

The air was cool in here, which suited her well enough, since she was a warm-blooded girl and her uniform would have been stifling otherwise. The high collar's lace edge was soft thankfully, unlike the cuffs that were so starched she might as well have worn the crisp papers used to separate the candies. The deep blue wool of her dress and the pristine white of her apron shifted as she rose from her perch on the stool behind the showcase, walking down the length of it first on the backside, then on the customer's side of things. The candies were laid out upon doily covered rectangular trays within the case of smudge-free glass, their varied shades of cocoa brown and tinted icings, the brilliant, vibrant twists of colored sweets, candied fruits and golden cubes of sugar-crusted ginger gleaming richly in the low golden light from the new electrical chandelier that hung above, painting everything a homey sort of golden color, a warm hue that made you think of firesides and chicken soup comforts. Meant to draw in the customers on days like today, but it had been, thus far, fruitless.

Unlike the other shops along the street, the cool air outside was not much less than that within, and so the condensation that turned their windows to milky white was avoided and the gilded gold and green of the lettering on the shop window, as well as the door, were the only things to obscure her view of the world beyond. Not that it was all that interesting a view. The aforementioned shops with their ghostly white windows or pulled shades, the gray world of constant fog that seemed to cling to everything like the steam in a bathhouse, the occasional passing carriage or people huddled under umbrellas or darting quickly across the street under unfurled newspapers. Glancing up at the heavy gray clouds which hung overhead like damp wool. Occasionally, here and there, they would illuminate blue or green, sometimes a brilliant ruby, marking the unseen passage of airships high above.

It was dark enough now that she could see her own reflection in the door when she looked back down, a ghostly image superimposed over the world outside. Her dark clothing only helped this illusion of the spectral. Pale face and hands the only skin showing, and that seemed all the more pale in compare to her dress and the tightly drawn coif of her deep brown hair which had begun to come loose at the temple and the nape of her neck where tension had taken hold and the rubbing of her fingers to abate it had coaxed the strands to come free. Idly, she lifted her hands and smoothed it before turning away and retracing her steps back to the stool to once more perch. The clock made another soft -tick- and she glanced up to note the minute hand was still not touching the eight. She began to despair that this day would ever end.

Watching the rain fall, spattering droplets that melted into one another, growing fat and moving more swiftly down in rivulets. She must have dozed off for she did not even realize someone was coming until the bell jangled, and a glance at the clock proved it was only four minutes until closing. She blinked and sought to banish the remainder of the drowsiness from her mind as she gave an embarrassed chuckle, patting her hair and smoothing her apron as she rose from her stool and turned her attention to the figure at the door. He was enveloped in a dark coat, his collar turned up and the brim of his hat pulled low, no doubt to keep the rain off. "Good evening, Sir. Which of our delectable candy confections may I interest you in tonight? Perhaps some butterrumple creams or a hand-dipped cherry-berry whip?"

-.-

The rain at last let up, the clouds still hung darkly above, making it seem far later than quarter after six at night. Henry's Breath, blown in from western shore by the storm, was cloyingly seeking to obscure the glowing orbs of the street lamps in a wooly haze. The air was rich with the smell of chocolate, and Earnest Browne paused on his way home, thinking he might pick the Missus up a box of candies. He hadn't done anything wrong, but it never hurt to have a point in his favor for some future screw-up.

Pushing open the door, he paused to shake off his umbrella. "Oi, this weather! I do hope you're still open..." Spoken cheerily as he crossed the threshold. The moment he was inside, all color fled from his face at the scene before him. The ticking cadence of the clock was echoed by the steady drip-drip-drip of blood that fell from the tips of the fingers that hung out over the edge of the glass candy case, adding to the crimson puddle that spread out across the tiles, reflecting the chandelier's lights above, the unseeing eyes of the shop girl fixed in his direction, her face frozen in a look of utter horror.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

* * *

The shrill whistle broke through the sea of low murmuring. The crowd that had gathered around the shop parted to allow the policemen to pass. The older, a tall man in a rain-spattered brown wool Ulster and rather worn boots into which his trousers were tucked in to the knee. The younger, a fresh-faced bobby in uniform with a thin blonde moustache, moved along beside him until they reached the door. The detective stepped through into the shop while the younger stopped at the edge of the setback entryway, his hands held out at his side to bar the entrance. "Move along ya ghouls. Nothing you need to see." Stepping forward in an attempt to encourage the crowd to disperse.

Closing the door behind him, the Detective looked around the scene before him. The glass case was covered in blood, but unbroken. The body had been moved, in that the obvious space where an arm had laid across the glass stood stark, and the coroner was examining the body laid flat on a tarp behind the display. He looked up at the sound of the bell and recognition flashed in the ash-hued eyes.

"Hello, Jack. Meet Miss Collette Bishop." the world-weary voice rose as did the coroner, frowning. "Looks like the another work of The Beast."

"Don't name them, Winston." The detective grumbled as he walked the edge of the crime scene. "All we need is for some reporter to overhear and then it winds up in all the papers and suddenly we have a panic on our hands." Crouching down, he inspected the girl's wounds. He found himself unable to find fault with the coroner's conclusion. The wounds were nearly identical to those of the half-dozen shopgirls found murdered over the last few months. The marks weconcentrated mostly around the throat and shoulders in groups of three, much like the claw marks of a wild animal might look, hence the colorful appellation which had begun to cling to the unknown person who was committing these crimes. He studied the girl a moment longer, thinking she had likely been very pretty in life, then stood up, looking around as he dusted his hands against his thighs. "Whatever his true name is, I don't doubt you're right, Doctor. Which one of them found her?" His gold-green eyes panned the shop, noting both the fidgety man twisting his hat around in his pudgy fingers, and the almost skeletal looking man with the pince-nez glasses who was speaking to a pair of junior office

"That'd be Earnest Browne, the short, twitchy one. The other one is Mr. Noble, the shop's owner. Seemed more concerned with the floor being ruined than the girl. Cold blooded bastard..." Woodrow muttered as he directed his assistant to prepare the body to be taken off to the morgue.

A nod and the detective crossed to where Mr. Browne was being questioned. He hung back a moment, then offered a polite nod toward the officer questioning the nervous man. "Mr. Browne, I'm Detective Jack Ainsley of the D.M.C. I would like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"As I was just telling this officer, I just came in to... to get a box of sweets for my Mrs. and ... there she was. That poor girl just ...all that blood..." His face gone a pasty grayish tint as he looked toward the scene.

Jack stepped between him and the carnage, blocking his view and capturing his attention. "And you are sure that you touched nothing?"

"Well, I touched the doorknob, I suppose..." Earnest swallowed hard and forced his focus to stay on the stern looking face of the detective.

"The... the one on the outside of the door and then the door itself when I um.. I ran out to pull the alarm on the corner."

"Alright, Mr. Browne. Thank you. Give your information to the officer for when we need to contact you again." He gave a curt nod. "Good evening." He turned sharply on his heel and stalked toward the figure of the shop's owner. The man looked down his nose at everything and everyone around him, his exceptionally slender build and large rather hooked nose giving him the air of a vulture.

"Mr. Noble?" He gave a polite nod to the patrolman who was taking the man's information. "I'll take over, officer." His notepad removed from the inside pocket of his jacket. He had seen Mr. Browne's discomfort and made it quick. He was not so inclined in this man's case. He radiated an unhelpful vibe, and coupling that with what Winston had said, Jack was not feeling particularly charitable. When he had flipped to a clear page and poised his pencil, he lifted his eyes to those of Mr. Noble. "Let's say we start at the beginning, shall we?"

"Oh must we, Officer?" the man groaned in a posh drawl. "I have to call in the cleaning crews before this mess stains the grout work beyond saving."

"Mr. Noble, a girl is dead. Does that mean nothing to you?" Jack's tone edged with scorn and disgust at the callous nature being displayed.

"I am well aware of the situation. When I heard the commotion. All the people and the police whistles, I came right downstairs."

"Downstairs?" Jack arched a brow, pencil moving over the page.

"Yes, I inhabit the rooms above the shop. It allows me to keep a better eye on the staff. Ensure they're not pilfering or stuffing their faces and costing me good money."

"And yet you did not come downstairs until the police whistles began sounding? You heard no disturbance before that?" He looked at the man with harsh scrutiny. He did not believe he could in one breath say he kept rooms upstairs in order to monitor something so silently accomplished as sneaking a bon-bon but yet he'd missed a murder being committed.

"I heard the door bell chime, then perhaps ... fifteen minutes later, I heard it again. Then, not two minutes later, the sounds of the police arriving and I came downstairs and found my shop swarming with people and in a terribly untidy state." He gave a haughty sniff. "So if you don't mind, I really do need to contact someone to clean this up before it ruins the floor."

"You're telling me you heard the bell ring and then not again for fifteen minutes, and right after it rang again, that's when you heard the police coming? So you're saying you either didn't hear the killer enter, didn't hear him leave, or that he stayed fifteen minutes and he's that guy?" He gave a head twitch toward the shaky and grey-faced Mr. Browne being escorted quickly out though he only made it to the middle of the sidewalk before he began to pour out his guts, sending the few morbid stragglers scattering in disgust.

"I am telling you what I heard, whether it's him or not, that is for you to determine, is it not?" His condescending tone making Jack consider punching his teeth back a few inches. The times given by Noble were written down though. "How do you access the shop from upstairs, Mr. Noble?"

"There is a staircase in the stockroom, just back there." He pointed to a curtained space between two tall cabinets laden with jars of hard candies.

Jack pointed with his pencil. "Show me."

Noble didn't seem pleased to have cops any deeper into his shop than they were already, but he tugged at the hem of his jacket and gave a curt nod, turning to lead the way past the curtain. The stock room was shelves with crates and barrels of various sweets, the air chill enough to make his breath faintly turn silvery. At the back of the room a dark iron spiral staircase ascended to the second floor landing which ran halfway across the room to a cream-colored door. It was not, however, that door which caught his attention. "Where does this one lead?" He was in the process of answering his own question as he stepped forward and opened it revealing the fog-kissed alleyway. "No bell on _this_ door, I see."

Noble blinked and shook his head, still a bit put out and now concerned that a killer might have come in silently and might do so again. While he could always hire more shop girls, he certainly took it more seriously now that it was his own hide in danger.

He nodded and turned on his heel, stalking back as he'd come. "Officer?!" gesturing for the attention of the man who had been interviewing Noble when he'd arrived. "There's a door leading out through the back room I want you to take a few men and see if our friend left behind any trace of himself between here and the street. Ask around, see if anyone saw anyone leaving the alley between five-thirty and six-thirty this evening and someone take Mr. Noble here on a walk-through, make sure nothing was taken."

The notebook in which he'd been writing even as he spoke, was closed and slid into his breast pocket. "Mr. Noble, I am most grateful for your cooperation. I'm sure they will be done with you in a few hours at most. I'll arrange for a photographer to return as soon as possible to collect shots of this back room. With luck we should be able to release this crime scene by sometime in the afternoon." Jack was not about to put a burner under anyone to hasten things either. He didn't care for the loss of a human life, so Jack was more than happy to let him mourn the loss of coin, the only thing he did seem to care for. "Mr. Noble." A nod and he made his way out into the street, his mind turning on the crime and how it might have happened.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

His hat settled back upon his head, he noted there were a few still standing about. A couple of reporters, but they knew him well enough to know by the look on his face there would be no official statement given, nor any off-the-record tidbits tonight. A few lurkers still hung about, but one could stare at the same drying blood stain for only so long and even those stalwart crime-followers were starting to wane in interest. One face, however, was neither inquisitive nor curious. She was sad and angry, and who knows what else behind those two warring emotions. She caught him looking and she held his eyes unflinchingly. He could seen now she had been crying but her voice held no tremor when she spoke. "You there. Where have they taken..." she had almost used the name, but noting the few reporters around she did not think it kind to give them anything they might not already have. "The girl?"

He frowned, not thrilled to be addressed with such a tone, especially after the imperious Mr. Noble. He could not refrain from walking toward her though. The nearer her drew, the more he could tell about her. Her dress was clean, but worn at the wrists and hem and the buttons, while all black, did not seem to have been purchased from the same dye lot. She was tall for a woman, and built well, though a trifle too thin at the moment, visible in the faint sag of her dress against her frame and the lack of roses in her sunken cheeks. He stopped close, looking past her, down the street one way, then the other before he finally let his attention settle on her. "What business is it of yours, Miss?"

"I wish to make arrangements for her burial." Her voice's volume lowered to match his own.

"Are you family?" He inquired, understanding a bit why she had been weeping now. She must not have been here long if she'd been ignored thus far.

"No, Sir. She just lived across the hall from me. While we were not particularly close, I still wish her buried with respect and remembrance." She knew well what it was to be a woman alone in the city, having little in the way of options. "I am not stupid, so I know she had been taken to the morgue, I simply do not know where it is located and no one will give me the address because I am not family." She cut a withering look toward the few officers who were still milling about looking for clues before she drew herself up and offered a polite half-smile. "If you would deign to help me, Detective, I would be most grateful."

"I am going there myself, if you do not mind waiting a few minutes more, you may accompany me." Her nod curt, but he took no offense, a polite bow of his head and he moved off to speak with the remaining officers, giving last minute directions before making his way back, speaking as he passed. "If you'll follow me, Miss." Retrieving the pad from his pocket as he walked off along the sidewalk, presumably toward the precinct, flipping through and making the occasional note even as he walked. The swift sound of her feet catching up fell into the same pace as his own. He did not speak, and she didn't press conversation. It was at the third corner, forced to pause as the street before them cleared of traffic, that he spoke.

"What can you tell me about Miss Bishop, Miss...?" he lifted his brows obviously awaiting her to offer her own name.

"Oh, Poste. P-o-s-t-e."

"And your given name?" He held the pen poised.

"Theodosia." Waiting for him to write that down and as traffic cleared, they resumed the walk. "As for your question over Miss Bishop, I will tell you all I know. As I said, she lived across the hall from me at the Wellington. 2380 North Coventry Street." Attempting to be as thorough as possible. "She had lived there a year or so longer than I, and I have been there for six months. As I hinted before we were not friends as much as known to one another. We chatted in the elevator or in the lobby waiting for the rain to quiet before we stepped out, or at the Wellington's monthly teas and such. She had no family. Her parents were killed on a holiday trip when she was sixteen. An aunt took her in for a bit, but she was not appreciated there and as she had no real inheritance of her own, she took an apprenticeship at a milnery, but had such an allergy to feathers that she had to give it up. She's been working at the candy shop for about ..." She thought it over. "Well, probably nine months or so, as she'd been there three when I arrived at the Wellington." Her breath coming a little quicker, as she was not used to walking so fast and trying to converse at the same time. "I am aware what people say about shop girls, Sir. I can assure you that she had no man in her life."

"How can you be so certain, Miss Poste?" He was glad she seemed to be so forthcoming. His list of questions thus far unanswered was fairly short.

"It was a common complaint. Miss Bishop was ..." She frowned a little. "It seems bad manners to speak ill of the dead, but she was quite sure the sort of man she wished to aim for, and she aimed quite a bit higher than her station."

"She wanted a rich man?"

"Not only rich, Sir. Respectable. Someone who she could be assured would allow her to put off her working-girl period as nothing more than bit of a lark and never to be thought of again. She didn't like working very much."

"I see. And to your knowledge she had no gentlemen friends at all?"

"No, Sir. She would never have settled for anyone she couldn't brag about. She'd been no different than she usually was either. Not sad or secretive or more cheery. No sign of any alteration in her life that might have been harbinger to this tragedy." A deep sigh and she shook her head. "If there were, I didn't see it."

"How do you make your living, Miss Poste?"

She blinked a bit in surprise at the question, but she surmised that such an audacious question was part and parcel with a criminal investigation. "To say I am an assistant librarian sounds so much more impressive than the truth. I put away books and dust the shelves. Occasionally I'll need to do a bit of repair to a spine or tape up a torn page or the like."

"So not a shop girl. Good." he closed his notebook and tucked it away. "We're here. Please." He opened the door for her and when she'd passed into the foyer, he passed and opened the next, removing his hat and holding it against his side as he walked. "There are chairs over there. If you will have a seat, I will send someone up from the morgue to speak with you. It may be a while, Miss Poste, so if you have to leave, please leave your whole address with the officer over there at the desk." He offered a polite, if curt, nod and walked away.

She mirrored the motion and moved aside, taking up a perch on one of the chairs, assuming it would be a good long wait, but at least she was in the right place and the proper people would be told she wanted to see to Collette's arrangements. It would cost every cent of her savings, she was sure, plus some, but the idea of even a casual acquaintance being tossed in some common grave with whores dead of disease and drunks who fell in stupor and cracked their heads open...added to her sadly short life? It would be too horrible to withstand.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

As he made his way down the hall, then the long staircase which lead to the belly of the station, he wondered over something he had said to Miss Poste. In his memory, it played over and over, a querulous sort of echo of that single word. Good. '_So not a shop girl? Good.'_ Why had he said it was good? Well, obviously, as every victim thus far had been a young woman working in a shop and he did not wish to see Miss Poste lying upon some cold slab in the basement. He didn't want to see anyone in such a position. Naturally. Perhaps it was not the word but how he'd said it. In his memory it sounded too relieved. Too familiar. The door to the morgue reached and he pushed all thoughts but those of work out of his head.

The room was unpleasant always. Cold and dank, the walls lined in jars of organs and charts of flayed bodies and such. The steel tables shone dully, the sheet covered ones on the fringes where the ice above them sent cold air sinking, the drains dripping constantly. It would make him mad to work here. A creak of wheels and Winston pushed in the roughly sewn tarp that he knew held the corpse of Miss Bishop.

"Ah, Jack. We were just getting ready to begin. Would you like to stay and watch?"

"No, Winston, I think I will simply wait for the final results of your testing." He looked over the man, always finding it strange how grey he was. His hair, his eyes, his clothing, even his skin seemed to hold a dusty sort of pallor. "The reason I came down so quickly is to inform you I've brought you a young lady, a Miss Poste. She is waiting upstairs in the front hall."

"Oooh" Winston smiled wide. "Well it's about time, Jack." A glint of teasing in his eye. Despite his rather morbid line of work and ghoulish coloring, he was actually the most lively person Jack knew.

"Yes." He drawled dryly, conveying in a single syllable his feelings about the implication. "The lady, in fact, intends to handle Miss Bishop's final arrangements. Someone from down here will need to speak with her, work with the release to whatever undertaker she has selected." He was not squeamish about dead bodies, but the sound of the body being cut out of her clothing was too much for his sense of decency. "I will leave you to your work and attend to my own." Turning to walk out.

"Pints and darts after work then?" Winston asked as he fetched his apron from the hook. A dismissive wave the only answer he ever got to that question. Jack was not the sort who indulged in such things. It wasn't because of unfriendliness, he simply didn't know how to turn his mind toward simple things and find pleasure in them. Stepping up to the woman, her body draped in folded sheets to leave most of her exposed without being disrespectful. "Poor girl." Those like her who had crossed his table so often were bound for a potter's field and an eternity unremembered. It was comforting this one had at least one person who cared for her. Drawing up the cloth of his mask, he began dictating to his assistant who wrote down what the doctor said as he went about cataloging the girl's injuries.

"Subject M489-15, identified positively as Miss Collette Bishop, is female, approximately five feet, four inches in height, one hundred ten pounds, Caucasian. Brown hair, brown eyes, no obvious distinguishing marks or scars. The subject was found deceased at six thirty PM, March fourth at Noble's Confectionery Emporium. The cause of death appears to be exsanguination due to deep tissue laceration, specifically the tearing of the neck and throat, transecting both the carotid and subclavian arteries as well as the jugular vein. The larnyx was sliced through as well as the trachea, indicating a very sharp instrument was used, but one too bulky to make a clean incision. There is no sign of struggle or defensive wounds on the victim. The wounds speak to the fact unconsciousness would have occured within a matter of moments, and death soon after."

He continued the investigation of the corpse, finding the same results as the previous victims. They were all between the ages of eighteen and twenty two, all worked in shops, all were dark-haired and between five and five and a half feet. They lived in different parts of the city, some had large caring families, some had no one at all. Their workplaces varied across the board from high-end dress shops to simple corner chemists. He removed his gloves and the blood soaked coat, his brow marked by a frown. It was so very senseless, and he wished above all else that he could shake the feeling it was only just beginning.

It was several hours before someone from the coroner's offices ascended to the waiting room to seek out Miss Poste. She was not difficult to find. The waiting room was hardly full, but Miss Poste was sitting alone by herself, a handkerchief touched now and then to the corner of her eyes, but to be honest, Winston would have read her face as frustrated rather than sad. "Miss Poste?" He spoke up to be heard over the murmur of the police station, and he offered a condolence-laden smile when her head swung round. He motioned her to follow and stepped away to lead her down the hall, then the long stairwell into the basement. He veered to the left and into his office rather than the door to the morgue proper. "Please, have a seat, Miss Poste." He motioned to a rather worn wooden chair across the desk from his own seat, turning with a creak of old gears to open a file cabinet an rummage for the proper paperwork.

She had followed in silence, ,her anger and sadness equal in measure. Twice she'd been witness to almost identical scenarios. Women, their faces still purple with bruises, pleading for the release of the men who'd done it to them. It made her feel sick and sad and ashamed of her gender and angry at the other. The cooler air and quiet of the lower level of the precinct made it easier to compose herself, and by the time she'd taken a seat, she was merely simmering instead of the roiling boil her emotions had been going at. While the man pulled papers from the files, she remained quiet until the drawer shut and he turned round to face her. "Forgive me, Sir. I do not wish to be morbid, but you are the man who … attended Miss Bishop when she was found? Was she...passed already?"

Winston nodded. "Yes, Miss. It was quick. She did not suffer long."

Theodora nodded, biting her lip. "Thank you, Sir. I thank you for being honest with me." A huff of resolution and she sniffled sitting up straighter. "To business then. I do not, I admit, know exactly how to proceed with such things. I am not wealthy, but I would like to see Miss Bishop have a decent burial with a stone and everything. "

"What funereal parlor will you be calling upon to collect the bod... Miss Bishop?"

"I … do not know. Who is both honorable and inexpensive?" A half-smile, apologetic for being so ill-informed.

"Do not fret, Miss Poste. I know just the chaps." He wrote down a name and held it out to her. "Now, perhaps you can help me with some of this paperwork?" He noted her nod and once she'd put the card into her bag, he began. "Did Miss Biship have any next of kin? Someone we should notify?"

"She has an elderly aunt, but it has been years since they corresponded and Miss Bishop implied always that the woman had washed her hands of her. I do not know her address or name."

"Address?" He began writing when she gave it, taking down all the information she could give and though it did not answer everything, it did fill in quite a few holes. When he finished, he looked up at her, truly looking at her for the first time. He could see she was unhappy, naturally, but she was not a wilting violet. She was quite a decent girl and were he not so old, he might have angled his cap in her direction. "Thank you, Miss Poste. Allow me to once again offer my most sincere condolences on your loss." Rising as he spoke.

"I thank you, Sir, for your kindness, and for being one of the few who will, at least for a while, remember her." She patted her bag. "And for helping me assure that she has the respectful treatment in death she always sought in life. "

She stood and offered out her hand. Before he could politely bow over it as a gentleman ought, she slid her palm across his own and claimed his hand in a firm but delicate grip, shaking it twice before relenting her hold, stepping back and walking out into the hall. He watched as she paused where the doors lead to the morgue, a moment taken there, before she lifted the hanky to her eye again and then, with purpose, climbed the stairs. He sank back into his chair, thinking she was a very strange sort of girl, but he could not help but hope she did well in her life. Once her footsteps had faded and silence reigned again, he returned to the paperwork that would need doing before the body could be released for burial. Thoughts of the body as a person had to be pushed from his mind. He was not a heartless man, but it was a heartless business and caring too deeply would not serve anyone at all. Justice demanded a stoic and emotionless truth be told, though each year it grew harder to detatch himself, and more difficult still to convince himself it was the right thing to do.

It was after six when he finally had all the paperwork and photographs gathered, all the evidence from his end logged, all the preparations to the body for transport by the undertakers completed. He gathered up his coat and hat and headed out to The Cotterpin for his weekly round of drinks and darts with the lads. He was two pints in and seven points down when he happened to look toward the door when it swung open. He choked a bit on his lager and set it down, covering his mouth with a hastily snatched hanky from his breast pocket. When he'd invited Jack, he'd not actually expected him to show up. He stood in the doorway, obviously uncomfortable, scanning the room until he spied Winston, then crossing the room with a glower that made the coroner rise from his seat,expecting to hear there had been another murder.

"Winston." Jack nodded, looking past him at the others from the precinct who likewise would have been less surprised to see an ostrich in lipstick walk through the door. He gave them a nod then snared Winston's sleeve in his fingers and drew him aside toward an empty table along the wall. "What happened this afternoon. With the girl?"

"Well... I performed the postmortem as I always do. Everything's in the report, Jack, you just have to..."

"Not her. Miss Po.. The … girl who came to pay for her funeral." He looked out over the room. "Did you talk to her? Were you able to offer any help?"

"Miss Poste was very helpful in getting names and addresses and next-of-kin. I sent her to the Clays. They're not going to take advantage."

"Good, good." He grit his teeth so the muscle in his jaw clenched. That word again! "I will go and look over the report then. Leave you to your evening, Winston. Thank you." He turned then and walked back through the sea of tables and out, leaving his friend behind without a look back.

Winston chuckled, sauntering back to his table and plucking up his abandoned lager. "Sorry for the interruption, Lads... next round's on me." He looked toward the scoreboard. "Who's up?" His grin unabated. It was something he'd never thought he'd see. Jack Ainsley was a human after all. Who'd have guessed.


End file.
